Crimson
by sweetly-cruel
Summary: Everyone in an abusive relationship wants out. What happens if they get out and find out they don't know how to live without abuse? Dark themes (well, duh).


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Crimson

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By Sweetly Cruel

Author Note: Oh, dear God, this may well be the most twisted thing I've ever written. And I'm a pretty damn twisted person. It's kind of a succession of thoughts, because I was trying to capture a mentally ill frame of mind. And yes, I know it's not too good, but I wanted to upload _something_. And that Draco - well he's just plain interesting to write about, in any capacity.

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She'd expected to feel so many things upon seeing him again. Pain. Fear. Rage, perhaps. Some kind of sick, twisted excitement or passion or even _love_. Not this. She hadn't expected _this_. This numbness, this emptiness, this somewhat bored feeling of detachment.

She hadn't actually _known_ that she'd see him again, of course. She'd just believed it. She'd believed it because the alternative had seemed absurd; simply impossible. He'd been her life for so many years, and, though it pained her to admit it, he still was.

If her life wasn't there, she wondered, then shouldn't she, by all rights, be dead?

She didn't need to wonder for long, because she knew that she _was_ dead; had been dead for a frankly rather frightening amount of time. Realistically, logically, practically, she knew that she must exist; she could feel the roughness of her fingernails as she painted them a pale pink, could feel the blood seep so delicately from her legs as her razor bit into them. But she wasn't a realistic, logical or practical person, and she had a rather fanciful idea that maybe she existed in a dream. Maybe he'd murdered her years ago, and now her life was part of a dream of her mother's. It was a morbid thought, but she could be a very morbid person at times. Maybe her mother hadn't been able to cope with the trauma of her death, and dreamed about her being safe and well each night. Only she _wasn't_ safe, and she most certainly was _not_ well.

The pale pink nail polish was an act of defiance against him. In the past, before she'd broken away, he'd have stood over her and watched as she'd carefully coated her nails with the prettiest pink in her collection. He wouldn't have breathed a word, but her entire body would have tensed, though she'd have tried to ignore it. And he'd have remained silent until he'd seen that she was trembling so much that she'd smudged her polish and that there were blotches of pink smeared on her fingertips.

"Doesn't suit you, you know," he'd say, with just the slightest edge of viciousness cutting into his syrupy voice. "Really, Ana. You're not ten years old anymore. And in case you haven't noticed, you're no fucking fairy princess, either. Grow up."

And so she'd begun wearing different shades of nail polish - crimson, mostly. Occasionally scarlet. She wore it because he didn't taunt her for wearing it, and because it seemed to make him happy, and anyway, his mother wore it.

When she'd left, she'd endeavoured that the first thing she'd do - after she'd wiped the sticky tears from her eyes - would be to put on some of that damn pale pink nail varnish. And she had, but it hadn't made her feel blissful or free. She'd cocked her head to one side, examined the polish, and decided that the crimson had really looked much better. More beautiful. It had made her feel - trapped. Because now she knew that she didn't want to be free of him, that she missed him and his mind games, and that was far, far worse than any other kind of misery that he could trap her in.

One day, they'd had a fight, because she'd smiled at the waiter who'd brought them their coffee at Starbucks earlier. They'd been forever having fights over things like that. He'd thrown the nail polish onto the kitchen table, narrowly missing her arm. Bursts of crimson had splattered onto her wrists.

Now, she thought, her wrists seemed so pale, so _ugly_. Hadn't they looked so much more beautiful when they'd been stained elegantly with crimson?

She wasn't sure why she liked to hurt herself. She wasn't sure why she missed him so powerfully. Maybe she was an addict, hooked on what could only harm her. Maybe she was as sick and fucked up as he was. Maybe they could be sick and fucked up together.

"Hello, Ana."

"Hello."

It was the oddest thing; she truly felt nothing. Draco Malfoy, _her_ Draco, had walked into her shop and faced her without a trace of abashment, and she felt nothing. She couldn't decide if she _wanted_ to feel something, and assumed that she probably didn't.

"Your hair's grown back."

She could remember the night he'd cut it off, holding the scissors right to her cheek. They'd felt so cold against her sweaty skin. _You don't _want_ the guys to stare at you, do you? Then I don't suppose you'll object if I just play about with these scissors a bit._

"Yeah, I know. Who'd have thought it, eh? Hair… growing back eighteen months after it was cut. Miraculous, I tell you."

"You never used to be this sarcastic."

"There are a lot of things I never used to be."

She didn't know why she was responding with these short, snappy retorts. Part of her wanted to scream with terror, but she knew he'd only smother her mouth with his hand. Part of her wanted to kiss him madly, but she knew how very perverted that was. And so she was cool and bitter and stubborn.

"If you're not going to buy something, you might as well go."

Slowly, his grey eyes left her, and she heard the door close neatly behind him. Calmly, she followed him outside, into the harsh air. The air was surprisingly chilly for that time of year.

And, eyes closed, she stepped off the pavement and ran. The road was surprisingly busy for that time of day.

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End file.
